


Make a Life Worth Living

by DwarvenBeardSpores



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Babies, Bedtime Stories, Children, Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic, Existential Angst, F/M, Family Dynamics, Gardener Aziraphale, Gardening, Genderqueer Character, Kidfic, Kissing, M/M, Nanny Crowley, Other, Pre-Apocalypse, parenting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-25
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2019-10-16 02:45:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 14,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17541179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DwarvenBeardSpores/pseuds/DwarvenBeardSpores
Summary: In a desperate bid to save the world, Crowley and Aziraphale move into the Dowling household. Living and working together, raising a child, and facing down the impending apocalypse isn’t easy, but it does have a way of revealing how deeply they care for each other.A series of domestic vignettes about the Dowling era.Pt. 8. In Which Warlock Moves AwayNEW Pt. 9. In Which Aziraphale Becomes a Tutor





	1. In which Aziraphale wonders if their plan is worth it

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome! 
> 
> This fic is ongoing and not-necessarily-chronological. Each vignette can stand on its own, but all will take place during the Dowling years, and all will take place in the same continuity (unless specified otherwise, I guess). 
> 
> At this time, I intend to add more vignettes as the mood strikes me or I am prompted! Many of these stories came from prompt memes on tumblr (where I am dwarven-beard-spores, if you want to come say hi).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mirawonderfulstar requested “Choose Me” from [this prompt list](https://dwarven-beard-spores.tumblr.com/post/182210032576/prompt-list) and I had a lot of feelings about the Dowling Era.
> 
> My original post for this chapter can be found here.

The Dowlings had put out adverts, and Aziraphale had become a gardener. He did not precisely have an affinity for gardening, but it had certainly seemed like a better choice than taking responsibility of a baby. And it was the sort of work he enjoyed; quiet, absorbing, arguably Good but even more arguably pleasing. It had given him an excuse to revisit old almanacs and books on horticulture with truly lovely plate illustrations. And, if he was being particularly honest, a tiny part of him had done it to spite Crowley, who cared very deeply about plants and knew all about caring for them. It wasn’t the dear boy’s _fault,_ of course, but Crowley was the one who had told Aziraphale about the impending apocalypse, and Aziraphale rather wanted to take it out on _somebody._

It had all seemed fine for the first year or so, when he’d absorbed himself completely in learning a new craft, stopping only to provide small miracles and the occasional gentle-but-firm talking-to over the Antichrist’s pram. Crowley would shove the baby in his direction sometimes, and then cross her arms and look away, lips pursed, until she felt that Aziraphale had done enough to balance the child out. He was so focused on the minutiae of the work— and under the right circumstances Aziraphale would focus _very_ deeply indeed— that he barely noticed time passing.

And then, one summer afternoon a bit after Warlock’s first birthday, he was tending to a rather stubborn yellow rose bush when Crowley and Warlock came outside. Crowley sat stiffly on a bench and unwrapped what appeared to be a jam sandwich. These days she wore long black dresses and tilted her head severely and never strayed far from her carpet bag and umbrella. Her Hellhound went to explore the perimeter of the yard, and Warlock crawled about in the grass. Crowley kept a close eye on him, and seemed to be encouraging him to catch and eat bugs.

It was as though the fog Aziraphale had been wrapped in solidified and shattered all at once. Suddenly he was thinking of other benches and other sandwiches and times when his fingernails were not caked with dirt despite his best angelic efforts. It seemed to him that Warlock had grown to the crawling and bug-eating stage remarkably fast, and what year was it again?, and what if it didn’t work? What if all of this was for a long shot that went against Ineffability? He would be spending the last of his years on Earth tending to an uncooperative _plant._

He stood, and sent a polite suggestion to the rest of the Dowling household that there was no reason to look out in the garden right now, and called “Ms. Ashtoreth?”

Crowley looked up, raised an eyebrow, and smoothly scooped baby Warlock into her arms. Surely, Aziraphale thought crossly, the baby would have been fine on his own for a few minutes, but he supposed Crowley was rather invested in playing the part.

"Yes, _Brother Francis?"_ she asked, her tone clipped, but a smirk on her face. "What can I do for you? Is it the roses? You're too kind to them, that's the problem."

"No," Aziraphale said. "That is, yes. The roses are a problem, and maybe we _are_ being too kind."

Crowley huffed. _"We?_ I'll have you know that Warlock and I spent a lovely morning prank-calling daddy's diplomatic contacts. Didn't we, Warlock?"

Warlock babbled agreement.

Aziraphale gave them both the disapproving glare they deserved, but it was perhaps not as stern as it could have been. He was rather distracted. "That's just it," he said. "Suppose this doesn't work. Suppose the world does end in eleven years, what--"

"Francis!" Crowley pressed a hand over one of Warlock's ears, and pressed the other ear into her shoulder. "He understands more than you give him credit for," she hissed. "And it's ten, now."

"Yes, yes." That just made it worse. "Is this really how you want to go out? Nappies and roses and all this?" He gestured at the Dowling's very nice lawn and very large house, both rather small when taken against the entire rest of the world.

Crowley blinked at him. "It's what we've got to do," she said. "It's our only chance. I'm not going to lie down and let the whole thing get crumpled up and tossed out without trying _something._ "

"But suppose it really, truly can’t be stopped. Oughtn't we spend the last decade enjoying ourselves?"

Warlock started to fuss. Crowley bounced him gently, but didn't uncover his ears. "I _am_ enjoying myself," she snapped.

"But—"

"And I wouldn't enjoy _anything_ if I gave up. You, of all people, should appreciate that I'm choosing work as a caretaker over a drunken stupor."

That was, actually, highly preferable. But Aziraphale looked at his well-worn fingers and winced. "But—" he began again.

Warlock reached up at Crowley's face, expression crumpling as he, apparently, picked up on his nanny's agitation. "We can still do things, if you like. Go out on our days off. Rendezvous under the moonlight when the Dowlings aren't looking. You can still have cake and get your nails done."

Aziraphale wavered.

"But I'm not leaving. Shhh, Warlock." Crowley turned her attention away for a moment, plucking the prim sunglasses off her face and settling them on Warlock's nose. Warlock grabbed the arms happily. "There we go, you look much classier now, don't you?"

Then Crowley turned back, and her yellow eyes flashed sharp and dangerous and desperate. "If you give this up, I will play both roles and probably fail, but I'll have at least _tried._ You followed me here, you know I've got a point." Aziraphale got the vague feeling that she'd been preparing for this argument for a while now. "We do have a chance. Greater than zero, anyway. And if we go down, we might as well go down together, right?"

"Well, when you put it that way..."

"C'mon, angel. Choose me."

It sounded like a temptation and, in Crowley's eyes, looked for all the world like a plea. Aziraphale rubbed his hands together, and _most_ of the dirt fell away, though he'd need to work on the buildup under his nails later. "Of course," he said, averting his eyes so that Crowley couldn't see just how persuasive she'd been, so that he wouldn't see the relief bare in her face. "It was just a thought."

Crowley sagged in relief. Warlock tossed her glasses on the ground. Aziraphale picked them up.

"Good," Crowley said, as she put the glasses back on. "Good."

"I'll take him," Aziraphale offered. "It's about time for some heavenly influence, I'd expect. And, Dear, would you see about those roses?"

Crowley smiled, not the pursed-lips nanny smile she'd been affecting recently, but a wide, pleased grin. "Course," she said, and passed the baby over. "Let me at that pathetic example of a shrub."

Warlock was somehow always heavier than Aziraphale expected. He was calm, though, and listened closely as Aziraphale carried him away from Crowley's insults and talked to him about respecting all forms of life, from the most lush to the most uncooperative. When he got bored of that, he told Warlock of the best restaurants near in town that he might take Crowley to on their next evening off. "As long as you remember never to destroy the world," he said. "We'll get along just fine."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title comes from [Crescent City by I'm With Her](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OoEgH3Hiwf4) which is very much the aesthetic of this piece.


	2. In which there are cuddles in the early morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> scorpling requested “You come to my room and wake me up at 4am to cuddle?” from [this prompt list](https://dwarven-beard-spores.tumblr.com/post/182210032576/prompt-list) and it became a sequel. 
> 
> My original post for this chapter can be found [here](https://dwarven-beard-spores.tumblr.com/post/182288628431/34for-aziraphale-and-crowley).

Crowley liked children, as a general rule. They were more fun and more creative than adults, wildly wicked and wildly good all at once without really meaning any of it. Children liked Crowley back because Crowley told them things that adults wouldn’t. She had always been a fan of sharing forbidden knowledge.

But Crowley wasn’t used to being _responsible_ for a child. That was new and, well, not so bad really, though the fact that this _particular_ child was asleep came as a relief. Warlock was just starting to manage walking and talking and had realized he liked those things _so_ much there was no reason to ever stop.

But he’d finally settled down, and Crowley had retreated to her room with the mattress that was more comfortable and expensive than the Dowlings believed they had paid for and the black silk eye mask for extra protection against her snake eyes being noticed if she was disturbed in the night.

Which she was.

It was, perhaps, a testament to how alert one had to be to raise a child that Crowley woke up at all. She had slept through much greater disturbances than a light turned on, the creak of a floorboard, and an angel saying "dear," coughing pointedly, and repeating slightly louder, " _dear."_

"Hngk," Crowley said. She slid the eye mask up her forehead, wincing at the light. "What are you doing here?"

Aziraphale stood next to Crowley's bed (nowhere near the light switch), worrying his hands. He was not dressed as a gardener but as a bookshop owner, cleaner and softer. "I thought perhaps we ought to... compare notes," he said.

Crowley sighed and sat up. "We've set a time to compare notes, and it's in three days. Unless..." something cold bloomed throughout her insides. "Nothing's _happened,_ has it?" It was only a matter of time before Warlock started manifesting the sort of power that could bend and eventually destroy reality. In theory, the sooner that power showed up, the sooner Crowley and Aziraphale could start teaching Warlock that it was not for Apocalypse-starting, and that would be a good thing. In reality, Crowley had been dreading the moment she had to stop acting as though Warlock was an ordinary child and start being afraid of what he could do. She had, unfortunately, become somewhat attached to the boy, and the house, and seeing Aziraphale every day in the gardens.

"No," Aziraphale said quickly. "Nothing's happened. He's still, you know, normal."

"Oh," said Crowley. "Well don't do anything to wake him up. It took ages to put that little monster to bed."

"Of course, of course." Aziraphale shifted from one foot to the other. Crowley blinked at him expectantly.

"So, what?" she said finally. “You come to my room and wake me up at 4am to cuddle?"

"No..." Aziraphale answered again, looking slightly guilty. "Er, I thought we'd just talk."

"I'm too tired to talk, Angel," Crowley muttered. "Cuddles or nothing."

"Well, in _that_ case."

And then Aziraphale was climbing into Crowley's bed and spooning her, wrapping thick arms around her middle and sighing into the crook of her neck. Crowley instinctively relaxed back into him, bony spine cushioned by his soft stomach. The light clicked off.

"What's this about?" she asked. It was _her_ job to instigate cuddles; Aziraphale never thought of them on his own. Not that she _minded,_ it was just... odd.

"Nothing," Aziraphale lied.

Crowley rolled her eyes.

"It's just... I was thinking," Aziraphale said. "And I wanted to be here."

“Mmm. You might be leaving out some details there.”

Aziraphale huffed and squeezed Crowley tighter. “I thought you were too tired to talk.”

“I am.” Crowley yawned and her jaw cracked. “But the thing is, if you’re here, it obviously can’t wait until morning.”

Aziraphale was silent for several long moments, as though waiting for Crowley to fall asleep. She didn’t.

“I was thinking about the bird,” Aziraphale admitted finally.

“Oh,” said Crowley.

“Eternity,” Aziraphale clarified.

“I remember,” said Crowley. It was mostly true, though she had been _very_ drunk at the time. So thoughts of eternity made Aziraphale want to be here, cuddling her? Well then. She shivered, and Aziraphale held her closer, and she rested her hands on his.

What did one say to that? Nothing, even if Crowley had been awake enough to go into deep conversation. Eternity was eternity, but this dark morning was now.

This time Aziraphale must have believed Crowley to be asleep, because after several false starts he murmured, “sleep well my dear.” Crowley didn’t have the guts to correct him.


	3. In which Nanny Ashtoreth's severe personality is difficult to maintain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For cyberneticbanshee who requested Nanny Crowley and Gardener Aziraphale and the phrase “just shut up and kiss me.”
> 
> It got a bit out of hand, but I think I made it do what I want.

Every Thursday morning, before the sun was up, Brother Francis would step out into the Dowling’s garden, nod as though he’d done something, and leave a note to remind the rest of the staff that it was his day off. For some reason, no one could ever remember his schedule. He would leave through the front gate and walk quietly down the road to the bus stop, a mile or so away. It was time to think, he said, on the rare occasion when someone offered him a lift. He just wanted to walk through the sunrise and think.

About an hour later, every Thursday, Nanny Ashtoreth would wake inside the house, check on sleeping Warlock, and hiss quiet advice to Ms. Dowling as to how the child had been getting on. Then she would pick up her umbrella and carpetbag and walk out the front gate and down the road away from town, in the opposite direction of the bus stop. She was an ominous blot on the vaguely pastoral, somewhat developed area, and her shoes clacked loudly whether she was walking on concrete, or a dirt road, or on the grass. In the year and a half she’d been with the family, no one had managed to find out where she went. No one had felt inclined to try very hard.

By this time, Brother Francis would be standing beside the bus stop, waving away each of the two busses that came by at this time on a Thursday. He entertained himself by doing small acts of kindness for the driver and the passengers, because that was the sort of person he was, and small acts of malice, because Nanny Ashtoreth rarely encountered anyone on such mornings and it was good to keep things balanced.

About half an hour after Nanny Ashtoreth had left the Dowling’s house, an old black Bentley drove past the front drive. It shone like new despite having spent the past week hidden in a conveniently large shrub, and no one knew who it belonged to. Not that they’d tried very hard to find out.

Ten minutes after that, the Bentley pulled up to the bus stop, the passenger door cracked open, and Crowley said “get in, Angel,” as Aziraphale said “good morning, Dear.”

This particular Thursday happened to be in early of August, and it was already uncomfortably warm. Aziraphale wiped a bead of sweat off his neck. He preferred to sweat, on principle, though if the summer kept on the way it had been going he would be sorely tempted to change his mind. Crowley did not sweat, and Aziraphale was unsure if that was because she chose not to, or it hadn’t occurred to her, or perhaps, being a serpent, she was physically unable to. He didn’t ask.

“Breakfast?” Crowley asked, as always. As always, the answer was yes, and Crowley adjusted course for an outdoor café that served marvelous scones.

“Have you noticed anything, you know, _occult_ about the boy?” Aziraphale asked, thinking it better to get the worst out of the way first. As always, the answer was no.

For all its features, the one thing the Bentley didn’t have was a strong air conditioning system. Aziraphale rolled down the window partway, but had to roll it up again when Crowley picked up speed. He miracled the air around him a few degrees cooler and turned slightly to watch Crowley as she drove. Everything about her was sort of desperately severe, from the tight bun of her hair to the furrow in her forehead to the purse of her mouth and the tight stillness of her hands on the steering wheel. He thought about putting one of his hands over hers, for comfort or to reassure himself of… something, but wasn’t sure if she’d allow it. She’d been particularly aloof recently.

Accounts of Warlock’s weekly developments carried them the rest of the way to the café and halfway through breakfast, with both beings trying to focus so that they might spend the afternoon and evening really enjoying themselves.

Then, “we’re going to the zoo on Tuesday,” Crowley said, pushing things forward a bit. She sipped her tea primly. The cup gave a sharp clink when she set it back in its saucer. “You ought to meet us there.”

Aziraphale ate a scone. “Why the zoo?” he asked, though he was distracted by the subtle way Crowley rolled her shoulders and winced.

For millennia, Crowley’s spine had naturally assumed a snakey, almost boneless quality that, when she was relaxed, manifested in all manner of slouching, slinking, and draping herself over furniture. Now, Crowley normally held it to nearly human standards until it was time to get comfortable, but Nanny Ashtoreth was perpetually rigid as though she’d been built around a ruler. It looked… uncomfortable.

“It’s the sort of thing one does with children,” Crowley said. “Mr. Dowling is hosting a luncheon for some very important people, and it has been _suggested_ that Warlock and I make ourselves scarce.” The lift of her eyebrows indicated that it was a bit more than a suggestion, and also that she found the whole thing rather ridiculous. “I don’t know what he’s worried about. He hardly sees either of us as it is, and children make excellent conversation pieces.”

“Mmm,” said Aziraphale. He ate another scone and decided now was not the time to address Crowley’s issues with the Dowlings’ parenting strategy. He was not particularly partial to zoos, but it _would_ be nice to get out for the day, and having the particulars of his work schedule slip people’s minds was very easy indeed. “Shall I meet you at the bus stop, then?”

“I don’t think so,” Crowley said. “You’d better meet us there. By the giraffes, perhaps? They’d be a bad example for the boy. They’re selfish and malicious, you can see it in their eyes.”

“That’s hardly true, Dear. They’re kind and—”

“And absurd.”

“ _Ineffable,”_ Aziraphale said, holding back his smile until Crowley scoffed. “But what do you mean I ought to meet you there? We’re coming from the same place, aren’t we? The Dowlings won’t be any the wiser, and it’s not as though Warlock will mind. He’s quite fond of me you know.”

Meeting at the bus stop on their days off had been Crowley’s idea, because she didn’t fancy the Dowlings thinking that Nanny Ashtoreth and Brother Francis were working together, or being _intimate_ together, or even knew each other beyond the limits of their jobs. Aziraphale had agreed because it was more practical to play it safe than to alter the family’s memories if they got upset, and because it reminded him, in a way, of the care they’d taken in the days when the Arrangement was young and seemed far riskier than it had turned out to be.

“It’s not about what he _minds,_ ” Crowley said. “It’s about what he _thinks._ And Ms. Ashtoreth is _not_ the sort of woman who picks up male company in secret. She might accept chance companionship during an outing, though, which is why you’ve got to meet us there and pretend you knew nothing about it.”

Aziraphale mulled over this as he finished his tea. “But surely,” he said. “Warlock won’t know the difference.”

“You can’t be sure of that,” Crowley said. “And at any rate, _I will_. Ms. Ashtoreth is not a reckless woman. Nor is she a friendly one.”

“No,” Aziraphale agreed.

“She carries the secret sadness of family estrangement and heartbreak, which have made her bitter,” Crowley explained, sounding more and more like Ms. Ashtoreth with every word. “She trusts only herself to protect and corrupt the child in her care. It doesn’t matter if she thinks Francis is resoundingly homosexual, she doesn’t trust him enough to scoop him off the side of the road.”

“Dear, it’s really just you and me,” Aziraphale said weakly, wondering when that had stopped being true.

“It’s just _you_ ,” Crowley corrected, her voice sharp, brittle, and suddenly her own again. “You always manage to just be yourself, but with roses instead of books and disappearing around the side of the house instead of closing your shop, and they _believe_ you.”

“That’s not _entirely_ accurate,” Aziraphale protested, this being easier to address then the vague unease Crowley’s plan had sparked in him. “I’ve spent rather a lot of effort on the details of appearing human, the hobbies and the sweat and so forth. I just don’t bother to completely change my character every time.”

“You see, that wouldn’t _work_ for me,” Crowley said. “And it’s too late to change it now, anyway.”

They finished their breakfast in silence. Crowley was very stiff and controlled, and Aziraphale felt as though she were very far away. Without warning, she stood and placed a neatly folded stack of money on the table to pay their bill. Aziraphale tucked the last scone in his pocket then followed her to the car.

Before she opened the door, Aziraphale finally chanced it and put a hand on her shoulder. Crowley stiffened, then let out a breath. A small amount of her tension went with it, and she placed her own hand over Aziraphale’s.

“Crowley,” he said. “I can play along. But I wonder if you’re…. getting lost, rather."

“I can let it down with you,” she said. “Sort of. But around any of them, even Warlock, _especially_ Warlock… I _can’t._ ”

“You’ve barely let it down today at all,” Aziraphale pointed out. “Hardly for the past month.”

“Oh,” said Crowley. She licked her lips in a very Crowley way, forked tongue and everything.

“I think I understand if it’s easier that way,” Aziraphale said. “Pretending you don’t know me. Especially if Ashtoreth doesn’t _know_ about, well, _you know,_ but, er."

“Angel.”

“You’re the one who talked me into this, after all, and if you _must_ stay in character, then perhaps we could at least—”

“ _Aziraphale,”_ Crowley said, turning to face him. She hesitated a moment. “Just shut up and kiss me.”

“Ah,” said Aziraphale, surprised. “Are you sure?”

Crowley nodded, so he did.

Crowley’s lips were tense and tasted like lavender tea and Aziraphale kissed them gently once, twice, again, before Crowley stuck her hand in his hair and pulled him into something deeper with a lot more tongue. There was something desperate in the way she kissed, both delighted and frantic. It had been a long time since they’d kissed like this, but both of them remembered the way.

Aziraphale’s hands drifted to her back, holding her close as her rigid posture relaxed into a curve that used every one of her many vertebrae. He continued to hold her as they broke out of the kiss and she rested her forehead on his shoulder.

Aziraphale couldn’t hold back his smile. “I thought Ms. Ashtoreth wasn’t the sort who did things like that,” he murmured.

Crowley sighed into his shoulder. “That wasn’t her.”

Aziraphale chuckled and ran his hands down her back. “Good morning, my dear.”

He held her a moment longer, before Crowley stepped away and leaned back on the car, crossing her arms and looking very much not a proper nanny. “I’m glad we got to do that again before. Ah. You know.”

“Ah. Yes. Quite.” Aziraphale found he had nothing to do with his hands, and also that they were sweaty. He wiped them on his trousers.

For several minutes, nobody did anything. Aziraphale turned over thoughts about potentially kissing Crowley again, before he decided it was too soon to ask.

“I’ll meet you at the zoo,” he said at last. “No trouble, really. By the giraffes, you said?”

“Tuesday,” Crowley agreed. She stood up and opened the Bentley door. “Where was it you wanted to go today? Art gallery?”

“Anywhere besides the zoo,” Aziraphale said as he climbed in the other side of the car.

When Crowley pulled away, only one hand was tight around the wheel. Aziraphale was holding the other.


	4. In Which Brother Francis and Warlock Discuss Birthdays

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one written... completely unprompted! Be warned that it is REALLY fluffy, aha.
> 
> A few extra notes: 
> 
> I turned the chapter summaries into chapter titles, so they're now more descriptive, and I don't have to think of awkward short titles.
> 
> If you haven't read mirawonderfulstar's fic Change Back, that one's excellent and a good companion to these.
> 
> And finally, a general thank you to everyone who's been excited about this. It's been thrilling to have something ongoing for the first time in ages, and you are all are lovely.

It was Crowley’s afternoon off, and she was supposed to take the time to rest while Aziraphale looked after the child. “You look like you could use a nap,” Aziraphale had said, and he wasn’t wrong. Crowley had truly been planning to return to her room, but it was a summer afternoon and the sun was so _tempting,_ and now she was reclined in the grass at the far corner of the garden. Nanny Ashtoreth would never do such a thing, but _Crowley’s_ skin was warm and the grass was soft against her back, and at this angle from the house windows, with several occult misdirections around her, there was no chance of the Dowlings taking issue. Aziraphale could see her, of course, but he hardly would have classified this as anything out of the ordinary.

“Mr. Fwancis,” Warlock said, just within range of Crowley’s hearing. He and Aziraphale were stationed on a picnic blanket in the shade. “Guess what?”

“I don’t suppose it has anything to do with The Selfish Giant,” Aziraphale said, resignedly. He’d been trying to begin the story for the past twenty minutes, but Warlock was having none of it. Clever little boy.

“You’ve gotta _guess,_ ” Warlock insisted. Crowley glanced over, and sure enough his hands were opening and closing excitedly as he built himself up for the surprise. Crowley knew what it was. She’d been asked the question three times already today, and if she wasn’t mistaken, Aziraphale had gotten it at least once yesterday.

“I’m afraid I couldn’t possibly,” Aziraphale lied demurely.

“ _Guess!_ ” Warlock insisted, tugging on Aziraphale’s sleeve.

“All right,” Aziraphale said with a sigh. “Does it have to do with…” there was a pause as Aziraphale looked the boy over for clues. “…dirt?”

“No!” Warlock shrieked, giggling. “Guess again.” Crowley couldn’t help but grin. Aziraphale was better with children than he let on, or perhaps even believed.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to tell me,” Aziraphale said.

“My birthday is _tomorrow!_ ” Warlock crowed, lisping over the word and already extending a hand to count the years.

“Tomorrow? Oh dear me,” said Aziraphale. “Are you quite sure it’s not next week?” Thankfully he hadn’t let that slide. Crowley had been working so hard on teaching Warlock _some_ concept of linear time.

“Yeah!” Warlock agreed. “Next week. I’m gonna be _four._ ” That part, at least, was correct.

“Four already?” Aziraphale said, with an air of being bemused and slightly put out. “Where does the time go?”

Crowley rolled onto her stomach to sun her back, and to see the exchange a bit better. She hadn’t done this much recently, watch Aziraphale work with Warlock. They worked separately and compared notes. Crowley trusted him to do his job, just as he trusted her. It was nice, though. Seeing them get on.

Warlock continued to tell Aziraphale about his birthday plans, and Crowley closed her eyes and began to doze. At some point, however, she caught a phrase that woke her up purely by amusement.

“Mr. Fwancis,” Warlock said. “How old are you?”

“Well, er,” said Aziraphale, sounding for all the world as though he was trying to think of an appropriately small number. “Ninety, I should think.”

Crowley snorted.

“ _Woah,_ ” said Warlock. “That’s _old._ ”

“Not particularly,” Aziraphale said. “Not in the grand scheme of things.”

“Older’n Nanny is,” said Warlock. “She’s fourteen one.” Crowley hissed slightly. She didn’t actually mind the number getting around; actually she was pleased. She’d spent nearly half an hour choosing forty-one and was rather proud of it, and she’d specifically told Warlock it was a secret. Spilling secrets had to fall on the wicked side of things.

“Oh _is_ she?” Aziraphale said, and Crowley could hear the amusement in his voice. “And she told you that, did she? Well, Warlock. I’m afraid to say it, but your Nanny _may_ have been telling a fib.”

“Oh come _on,_ Angel,” Crowley muttered. If Aziraphale heard her, he didn’t react.

“You see, I know a secret. Ms. Ashtoreth and I have the same birthday.”

“The same birthday?” Warlock gasped as though the concept had never occurred to him before. It probably hadn’t. He didn’t know many people or many birthdays. It was a bold move on Aziraphale’s part; Warlock would see him as an information master for days to come. “The _same birthday!?_ Does that mean you’re _married?_ ”

Crowley couldn’t help the sharp laugh that escaped her mouth. What a conclusion to come to! But Warlock couldn’t really think—she’d been trying to act so aloof— and anyway, they _weren’t_ married, not by any ceremony she knew of. It was a childish leap of logic. That was all. Crowley pressed her face into the grass and tried to quell the feeling of being found out.

Luckily, Aziraphale was the one who had to answer the question. “I… Er…” he flustered. “No, that’s, er, not what it means at all. It simply means we arrived on this Earth on the very same day.”

It wasn’t, Crowley noticed with a grimace, an outright denial.

“An’ you’ve gotta share a birthday party,” Warlock said with pity.

“Ah, well. If we wanted to, I suppose, but—”

“Is it next week?” Warlock asked. “Mine’s _six_ days.”

“In October, actually,” Aziraphale said, with absolute certainty. “The 21st of October. I went and calculated it out, once. Most people get it wrong, you know.”

“Why?”

“Well,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley could hear something light up in his voice. “It’s rather interesting, really. You know the calendar hanging in the kitchen, where Nanny writes important dates?”

“Yeah.”

“They didn’t always make calendars like that, you see,” Aziraphale said. “Sometimes they made ones that… oh bother where’s my… ah, here we go.” Crowley looked up to see that Aziraphale had produced, from _somewhere,_ a large sheet of paper and a pen. He began sketching something out. “Sometimes they made ones that looked like this,” he began, “and sometimes like this, all different sorts, really.”

Crowley couldn’t see what Aziraphale was drawing, but Warlock was gripping onto his shoulder and chewing the bottom of his t-shirt, fascinated. Aziraphale started talking about the lengths of months next, and different measures of timekeeping, and Warlock surely couldn’t _understand_ all of that—most humans would get a bit lost with the way Aziraphale explained things— but he listened along all the same.

So Aziraphale had really gone and figured out where their birthday landed in the new system? He’d never told Crowley that. The 21st of October was as good a day as any, she supposed, and better than some.

She would correct Warlock about the marriage thing later. And figure out some way to reestablish herself as the foremost authority in his eyes. For now, the grass was cool on her face and the sun was warm on her back, and Aziraphale was rambling on about things he liked, so she simply closed her eyes and listened.


	5. In Which Aziraphale Gardens and Crowley Is Alive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> regencysnuffboxes sent me this prompt on tumblr: "The Hanged Man: punishment, knowledge, nature, halo, sacrifice"
> 
> I'm not sure how well this fits the prompt anymore, but it sure did reveal something!
> 
> Warnings for angst and roundabout mentions of some canon-typical concerning impulses on Aziraphale’s part.
> 
> (Several thousand ineffability points to anyone who finds the subtle Lost Skeleton of Cadavra reference I slipped in there)

Aziraphale was digging holes. Evenly spaced, one after the other, the shovel heavy in his grasp, under his foot. Ostensibly, he was planting rosemary, but his hands had been shaking when he’d gone to move the first plant out of its pot and he’d mangled the poor thing rather terribly. A miracle had put it back together again, but he thought it might be better just to keep digging and not put the others through the same fate. There was nothing to say planting _couldn’t_ be done in this order, and the only one liable to know enough about gardening to criticize him was Crowley, and she, well. She was a bit preoccupied.

The garden usually managed itself quite nicely, without Aziraphale putting in nearly this much effort (or any effort at all). There hadn’t even been potted rosemary to plant ten minutes ago. But he was digging, because he needed something to do with himself.

Aziraphale was not an expert on toddlers, but he knew they had tantrums all the time. That they screamed and fussed and the slightest offense could seem earth-shattering. Aziraphale found it irritating and heartbreaking by turns; there were _reasons_ he avoided children.

He had not counted the number of plants that had appeared in the yard, but he assumed (and was quite right in assuming), that there would be just enough to fill however many holes he dug. Yes. The garden would have a nice new border whether the Dowlings wanted it or not, and surely they would come around to his point of view.

The truly alarming thing was that he hadn’t seen it coming. Oh, Warlock had been in a mood all day, of course. He was upset about his Mum going out, it seemed, had followed her to the gate where she’d absently promised to buy him something nice and driven away. It was not the sort of interaction that inspired confidence.

Still, all Crowley had tried to do was take him in for a nap, and Warlock had screamed. Crowley had said “you must listen to your nanny,” in that stern way she had. Warlock’s protests had risen in pitch. “I won’t go in!” to “you’re not my mum!” to a final, frantic, “ _I hate you!_ ”

The shovel sliced evenly into the ground. He was getting rather good at this. And a good thing, too. If he let go of the shovel, he rather suspected his hands would begin shaking again.

Crowley had gone pale. He’d seen it even from across the yard, he could _still_ see it. So pale and still that for a moment he had thought _this is it. This is the moment the boy discovers his powers._

And then he hadn’t thought anything at all.

Then Crowley said “ _Warlock,_ ” and Aziraphale’s knees had almost given out in relief as he came back to himself. Nothing had happened; nothing occult at least. Not today.

Warlock had watched Crowley, eyes wide as though he knew he’d crossed a line, and this time when she told him in a strangled voice to go inside, he obeyed without question. Crowley had followed.

If she hadn’t come outside by the time Aziraphale was done with all these plants, he was going to go looking for her.

Warlock Dowling. The Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast That is Called Dragon, and so on, and so on, and so on again. He was such an utterly ordinary boy that Aziraphale had almost let himself forget.

But suppose the boy’s powers appeared tomorrow? Or suppose, in the best case scenario, they didn’t show up until he was nearly eleven? Even at that age he would be young, reckless, unpredictable, _human_. And Crowley worked so closely with him. Warlock loved her, Aziraphale was sure of that, but if today had been any indication, well, that might not be enough.

A thought settled in Aziraphale’s chest, hard and dense and cold like a bullet. 

But then, Warlock was only three, and he was a good boy. He’d been making excellent progress. And Crowley was resourceful. Surely there would be no need for _that._

Aziraphale put down the shovel and looked at his hands, which had gone red from the effort, but stopped shaking. Time for a change, perhaps.

He wanted to talk to Crowley.

Instead he picked up a potted plant and ran his fingers through its thin leaves. The plant wasn’t blooming yet, but it smelled fresh and strong and Aziraphale stood there a moment, breathing deeply.

Then, as gently as he could, he knelt on the ground and began delicately transferring it into the ground. The soil was cool and dark and his eyes traced patterns in the glimpses of roots he saw when the plant was in transit.

Three plants in, he heard the sharp clack of Crowley’s shoes on the grass and dropped his plant unceremoniously in the ground as he stood. She still looked pale and shaken. 

“A nap ought to sort him out,” Crowley said with a sort of pinched levity. “Nothing to worry about.” She looked over the yard. “Doing some actual work for once, I see.” If it was supposed to be a biting comment, it lost all intention halfway through when her voice just barely wavered.

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale said, and he stepped forward and wrapped her in his arms. At least one of them was trembling. Aziraphale pressed his face to Crowley’s hair.

They stood like that for nearly ten minutes before Crowley stepped aside and coughed.

“What were you doing?” she asked. “I saw you. I mean, I saw _you._ ”

“Ah,” said Aziraphale. He’d almost forgotten that, in the moment, he’d manifested just a bit of an ethereal form. Just in case. And he might have extended himself towards Warlock and Crowley. “I… I don’t know, really," he said, and that was true. “Trying to keep the two of us safe, I should think.”

“He didn’t do anything. He was upset. He had every right to be upset!”

“Yes, but Crowley…” He didn’t need to finish the thought. 

Crowley let out a strangled noise that was neither agreement or disagreement. She folded her arms tightly across her chest and looked away. After a moment, she snapped “whatever happens when he gets his powers, we’re _not_ going to hurt him.”

“That was never part of the plan,” said Aziraphale, promising nothing. He looked down at his hands and thought the last of the of the dirt off them. “Removing one antichrist from the equation would only lead to a new one in short order, and we’d have no sway over that one at all.” They’d been through all this before, but it was reassuring to say it again. As he spoke, the bullet-like thought sank down into his chest until he could barely feel it anymore. 

 “And even _you’d_ get in trouble for something like that,” Crowley said.

“Oh, undoubtedly,” Aziraphale agreed, as though that would be his main concern if… Well of course it should be. “Besides,” he sniffed, “I hardly think it would be possible for _me_ to do anything to the boy. Or either of us, once he’s got his powers.”

“Right,” said Crowley, and she sagged a bit with relief that made Aziraphale feel both reassured and vaguely guilty.

They stood in silence, Crowley still hugging her body, Aziraphale worrying the cuffs of his sleeves.

“You might want to have a word with him,” Crowley said quietly. “About hate and stuff. That’s right up your alley.”

“Certainly. As soon as he’s up from his nap. And Crowley?” He hesitated. “Do be careful, would you?”

Crowley gave him a weak smile. “I’m a demon, Aziraphale. Remember?”

Aziraphale shook his head. It wasn’t really an answer but, well, he knew Crowley and she knew how to survive. That would have to be enough.

“Come here,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley did, leaning into his chest. “We’re all right,” he said, holding her close. Crowley gave a deep sigh and closed her eyes. She was cool but solid, and her stiff spine relaxed under his hands. “Nothing to worry about.”

“Except your shrubs,” Crowley said. “Scraggly bunch, the lot of them.”

“I ought to finish planting them all,” Aziraphale said. He did not let go.

“Leave them,” said Crowley. “For now.”

With more certainty than he’d felt about anything all day, Aziraphale pressed his face to Crowley’s head and whispered, “of course, my dear.”


	6. In Which the Wild Things Are

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for being patient with this one; I thought it would be cute and it turned out to be a BUTT to write. I think it's as good as it's going to get, though, and I'm nervous about it but also excited, so y'all get it now!
> 
> You can thank mirawonderfulstar for inspiring this by asking me about Warlock's reading list. You can read our discussions about that[here](https://dwarven-beard-spores.tumblr.com/post/183066340421/random-question-but-im-love-your-make-a-life). 
> 
> And uh, yeah, I have a lot of feelings about Where the Wild Things Are, so this is just an in-depth account of Crowley reading a bedtime story.

_"The night Max wore his wolf suit and made mischief of one kind and another, his mother called him ‘WILD THING!’ and Max said ‘I'LL EAT YOU UP!’ so he was sent to bed without eating anything."_

Warlock nestled against Crowley's side, held in place by an arm that bent sharply at the elbow like the corner of an electric fence. He was not trying to escape. On the contrary, one tiny hand gripped the sleeve of Crowley's dress as he stared wide-eyed at the book open on her lap.

“You know what he's doing here?" Crowley flipped back and tapped at the page with a pointed red nail. Max, a young boy in a white wolf suit, leaped across the page with a fork clutched in his hand.

“Chasing the dog!” Warlock answered, delighted.

“Yes,” Crowley agreed, and indeed Max was. The dog was stubby and furry and white, very unlike the hellhound Warlock was bound to inherit, but close enough. As Warlock stared at the picture, the dog’s eyes flashed red. "Do you see Max's fork? Why do you think he has that?"

"He's gonna eat spaghetti."

Crowley breathed through her nose. That wouldn’t do at all. ”I think," she said, letting her voice go low and menacing, like she was sharing a secret, "that he has the fork because he wants to eat the dog, or at least he wants the dog to think-"

"You can't eat the _dog!"_ Warlock cried, affronted.

"You can," Crowley said. "And even if you won't, you need the dog to know you _could_ eat it if you wanted. Otherwise the dog might think it can eat _you._ " Hellhounds were nasty beasts. Even Rover, who was one of the oldest and mellowest hellhounds Crowley could find, and who was currently snoring loudly by the bedroom door, had a taste for flesh of all kinds. Warlock was scared of Rover and shot him a nervous glance at the prospect of eating, but he would need to know how to handle a hellhound of his own some day. He had no choice.

"They can not, _"_ Warlock insisted, with a cautious certainty that Crowley found rather promising.

"Not if they know who's in charge," Crowley murmured. "And that's going to be you."

She let Warlock stare at the image a little longer and then let him linger on the idea of eating his mother before she turned the page.

_"That night in Max's room a forest grew and grew and grew until his ceiling hung with vines and the walls became the world all around..."_

This was not the first time they'd read _Where the Wild Things Are,_ and it wouldn't be the last. From her first forays into storytimes, Crowley had been drawn to Sendak's books as suitable for a young antichrist. Classics that made parents uncomfortable, with unsettling drawings and stories about children's ability to create and consume worlds. She'd dropped the name once, hoping Aziraphale would disapprove, but in actuality he'd seemed quite pleased (Crowley suspected it was because Sendak was one of his adopted gay writers).

Still. There was no denying that this book was more than appropriate, even if something in Crowley's chest ached as she flipped pages slowly and stared deep into the illustrations of a dream forest blooming out of a bedroom.

(Crowley did not have any plants at the Dowling house, because Ms. Ashtoreth was not the sort to keep them. She'd given the ones at her flat strict instructions to stay green in her absence or face the consequences, but it had been weeks since she'd slipped away to check on them.)

"Would you like to create a forest like that?" she asked.

"Mmm, no."

"Are you sure?" Crowley said. "You'll be able to someday."

“Trees’re boring.”

And this was why Aziraphale should not be allowed around children. Still, there was a certain satisfaction in the fact that, while Aziraphale might be boring the child to tears outside, _Crowley_ was the one in charge of bedtime stories.

Warlock squirmed and dug his heel into her thigh. “Nannyyyy, let’s go, go go.” he whined, grabbing at the corners of the pages.

"We _are_ going," Crowley answered sharply. If left to its own devices, the page might have ripped as she turned it. But she was not expecting it to, and it didn't dare challenge her.

_"...and an ocean tumbled by, with a private boat for Max and he sailed off through night and day and in and out of weeks and almost over a year..."_

There was a serpent in the ocean between Max's room and the land of the wild things. Well, a sea dragon of some sort, with short claws and long horns, yellow eyes and a thick head of hair and, presumably, a long thin body disappearing into the water. A puff of its breath toppled Max's boat towards land.

"Does it scare you?" she asked.

Warlock squirmed. He didn't care for the journey much more than he cared for the forest. "It should breathe _fire._ "

"Should it," said Crowley coldly.

“Yeah! And make the boat on fire!”

“It could do that. But Max might never arrive where he's going."

Warlock bounced. He knew this part. ”Where the wild things are!"

Crowley gave him a thin smile.

_“…to where the wild things are.”_

Warlock loved the wild things. His favorite had stripes and a round face, and a hairy tail that looked a little too close to Ligur’s for Crowley not to resent it. Her voice dropped and hissed as the Wild Things “ _roared their terrible roars and gnashed their terrible teeth, and rolled their terrible eyes and showed their terrible claws.”_

The illustration could have been even more frightening, but she made sure to trace those claws with her finger and point out just how _long_ and _sharp_ they were, how brutal the teeth.

It was important the boy understood.

“They could snap Max in half,” she said. “With one bite.”

“Specially that one.” Warlock patted his favorite.

“Especially _that_ one,” Crowley corrected. “Look at the size of its jaw. One bite."

Warlock didn’t seem convinced.

_“Till Max said ‘BE STILL!’ and tamed them with the magic trick of staring into all of their yellow eyes without blinking once. And they were frightened and called him the most wild thing of all and made him king of all wild things.”_

“Show me,” Crowley said, knowing that the day Warlock could still her with a stare would be the day all was truly out of her hands.

Warlock stared back at her, brown eyes open comically wide as he tried not to blink.

“But look like you mean it,” she said. “Pretend I’m a wild thing. Pretend I’m going to eat you up.” She grinned then, not like a snake but like a demon, and Warlock’s face contorted into something much more strained but no more terrifying (or terrified) than before.

“Like this?” he asked, voice strangled in his glare.

“Not quite. Keep working at it.” Well, the boy still had time. And it was probably a good sign for Crowley’s particular causes that being a prince of Hell didn’t come too easily. As long as he could hold his own when the time came.

Warlock let out a huge breath and deflated over the side of Crowley’s arm. “It’s not fair.”

 _No,_ Crowley thought. _It isn’t._

“I gotta look at _your_ eyes to do it right.”

“Well you can’t,” Crowley said, and cleared her throat. As far as Warlock knew, her eyes had been damaged long ago, and were so sensitive that she had to wear the glasses all the time. It was not entirely inaccurate, and satisfied him as much as anything would.

_“‘And now,’ cried Max,‘let the wild rumpus start!’”_

For several pages there was nothing for Crowley to read; only full-page illustrations of child-friendly bacchanalian revelries. Howling at the moon, swinging from trees, and in the center always Max, nearly blending in with his wolf suit, a crown atop his head. Warlock liked to talk about what was going on in each scene, that they were trying to yell to aliens on the moon or, on another day, had started a band. Tonight he was fascinated by the picture with the trees, and gave Crowley a play-by-play on which wild thing would let go and fall to the ground first and whether or not they’d get hurt.

Crowley smiled. Here were the inklings of a child who might someday ride his tricycle in the house.

“It sounds like there will be a lot of people who get hurt,” Crowley said.

“They get better,” said Warlock. “Except that one that broke its leg has to stay in bed for a _year._ ”

_“‘Now stop!’ Max said and sent the wild things off to bed without their supper. And Max, the king of all wild things, was lonely and wanted to be where someone loved him best of all.”_

That was what the book said, so that was what Crowley read. She could have changed the ending, of course. She did it to other stories and rhymes all the time. If she was really raising him to be the antichrist or strictly sticking to the roles she and Aziraphale had agreed on, she would have.

It did not matter that the bend of her elbow grew more severe as Warlock grew more restless, nor that she shuddered when Rover’s ear twitched suspiciously at the word ‘love’. All she had to do was read and hope the boy listened.

_“Then all around from far away across the world he smelled good things to eat, so he gave up being king of where the wild things are. But the wild things cried ‘oh please don’t go— we’ll eat you up— we love you so!’ And Max said, ‘No!’”_

“He can’t do that,” Warlock complained.

“He can,” said Crowley. “He can always say no. And so can you.”

“I won’t,” said Warlock, just to spite her. “I’d stay with the wild things and make spaghetti.”

“All right,” said Crowley. “And what if they decided to eat you anyway, because they were tired of you being king?”

“They wouldn’t,” said Warlock.

“What if?” said Crowley.

“No,” said Warlock. He squirmed. “Are we done?”

Crowley smiled grimly. “Almost,” she promised. “We’re going home now.” And she read through the journey, which repeated the teeth gnashing and and the eye rolling, which brought them past the serpent guardian again as Max reversed the journey in and out of weeks until he made it _“into the night of his very own room where he found his supper waiting for him.”_

And now for the first time Max pulled down the hood of his wolf suit, tired and content and safe. No longer a monster, just a little boy, and sure enough there was a bowl of something on the table in the corner, steaming like anything.

_“And it was still hot.”_

Crowley closed the book on a white void.

“And that,” she said sharply, “means it’s time for you to go to bed.”

Warlock had gotten subdued toward the end of the story, and now he pressed his face into Crowley’s shoulder. “I don’t wanna.”

Crowley closed the book and set on the foot of the bed. "It's late," she said.

"Th'wild things're cool," Warlock said, his voice muffled.

“Of course they are.”

“But you _hate_ them!” Warlock said, still not looking up. “I want friends and they’re monstersl and you _hate_ them!”

The hellhound woke up and looked around the room in case there was anything nearby that needed mauling. Finding nothing, he rested his head back on his paws.Crowley waited until he was settled before gently resting a hand on the back of Warlock’s head.

Perhaps she had come down too hard. Emphasized severity over free will. Let her own interests ruin the story. Aziraphale had made plans to meet with her tonight and she feared the worst, that Warlock was starting to show powers already.

“Are they your friends?” she asked.

Warlock nodded.

“Then keep them,” Crowley said. “Good friends are in short supply.” She shifted Warlock off her lap and tucked him carefully under the covers. “There. All ready for bed.”

“So you don’t hate them?”

"I don't hate them," Crowley said softly. "I, well. They remind me of some very mean people who don't like me at all."

"Are they the ones that hurt your eyes?"

Crowley laughed. "Not exactly."

"Can I see them?" Warlock scrunched his face up. "I can _allllmost_ remember..." Crowley tried not to wince. It was true she hadn't been as careful as she might have been when Warlock was young, but surely he couldn't remember clearly enough to be certain of anything. Plausible deniability, the old standby.

"No," she said, standing and taking the book with her. Rover huffed to his feet and stalked out the door as soon as she'd opened it. "Good night, Warlock."

" _Please?_ " Warlock said, and Crowley stopped in her tracks.

He was so small bundled in his blankets, staring at her with wide, unblinking eyes, and he was radiating such... not desire, but an offshoot of that. Aziraphale would call it love. Crowley wouldn't. But she could feel it all the same.

"Alright," she said. "But I can only take my glasses off once the lights are out. And then you go to sleep. How does that sound?"

"Yes!" Warlock crowed. "But you gotta wait for my eyes to 'just."

"Five seconds," Crowley said. "Ready?"

He nodded. The light went out. "Five," Crowley counted down. "Four."

"Three, two, one," they finished together, Warlock drawing the numbers out as much as he could.

Crowley pulled off her glasses. She could see perfectly well in the dark, could see Warlock peering in her direction, straining to catch a glimpse. There was no recognition or understanding in his face, no fear or repulsion, just a quiet sort of awe for whatever he imagined seeing. "Good night Warlock," Crowley said again.

"G'night Nanny," he said quietly.

She closed the door quietly and took a moment to put the glasses back on. That was fine, it had all gone fine, but a sort of slow exhaustion had crept into her bones while she wasn't watching. 

Instead of going to bed, however, she made her way down the stairs to the kitchen. Aziraphale had said he'd wanted to talk about something once the child was asleep and the cook was gone. Indeed, Crowley found him already settled in with a book.

“Tea, dear?” Aziraphale asked, offering her a cup.

“Thanks,” said Crowley, settling in beside him. She took a sip, and it was still hot.


	7. In Which Nanny Ashtoreth Meets her Charge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I warned you at the beginning that I wasn't necessarily writing in chronological order, and this here is why, we're going waaay back in time :)

The interview had gone exactly as well as Crowley had expected it to, which was to say quite well indeed. The Dowlings had reacted to hi-- that was to say, _her_ \-- with a normal amount of suspicion. The sunglasses, the hellhound,  the snakelike writhing of her umbrella handle, and the way her reflection lingered just a little too long in the parlor mirror helped with that effect.

But upon realizing that no other nannies had so much as considered an interview, and after reading references which glowed like hellfire, and after Crowley had eased the rest of their doubts with a healthy amount of demonic persuasion, they began to feel rather more favorably.

“She’ll do, I’m sure,” said Thaddeus Dowling importantly. He and Harriet Dowling were sitting on a sofa in the parlor. The way Mr. Dowling kept frowning around the room suggested that he hadn’t spent much time here, or he had somewhere else he desperately wanted to be, or both. “Look at her. Says nanny all over.” Crowley, who had last used those pronouns regularly in the in the early part of the century, found that they worked perfectly well now, too. “And we don’t want to put out another advert and have another interview, now do we?”

For a woman who had given birth almost exactly two weeks ago, Ms. Dowling was well-dressed and put together so cleanly it hurt to look at. That was what came of having servants, Crowley supposed. Ms. Dowling listened to her husband and nodded slowly. “No,” she said. Beneath the makeup and jewelry she looked nervous, and she also looked tired.

“I can start immediately,” said Crowley, and watched as Mrs. Dowling’s shoulders visibly relaxed.

At the time, Crowley did not see anything out of the ordinary in their behavior, even if it left a bad taste in her mouth. Distance and fear and distraction seemed perfectly reasonable reactions to the antichrist. (Eventually she would realize that they were actually reactions to not particularly wanting to care for a baby in the first place, and her empathy would snap thin.)

The Dowlings shared a look, and then Mr. Dowling told Crowley what her salary would be, and how long she would be considered on probation. Mrs. Dowling said they were lucky to have her, and would she like to meet the baby now?

Crowleysaid that she would. She had already left Rover in the backyard, and now she left her umbrella in the parlor where it could keep an eye on Mr. Dowling on the off-chance he stayed put.

Mrs. Dowling led her up the stairs to the nursery, and Crowley mulled over what she suspected would be the final test. It seemed a fair question: _would the baby take to its nanny?_

The nursery was dimly lit and furnished vaguely in blue. Mrs. Dowling waved away the maid who had been nervously keeping an eye on the thing in the crib, and she slunk away with a strong air of relief.

“He might be asleep,” Mrs. Dowling said.

The blankets in the crib moved as something inside squirmed.

Crowley smiled unpleasantly. "What a delightful child," she said. "He'll be wanting a little tricycle soon." She put her carpet bag (which was lighter than it looked, being mostly a cover for her to miracle up whatever she needed) down by the door and approached.

If she needed to, Crowley could hypnotize adults like the Dowlings with no more effort than it took to grow her hair longer or change a hip black suit into an ominous black dress. She didn’t hypnotize children as a rule, and most of them only needed an enticing suggestion to get into trouble anyway. Babies were something else altogether. She wasn’t sure how such a young mind would take occult power (or if indeed an antichrist would be susceptible to anything of the sort). And, well. She _was_ meant to be instilling the child with free will and all; immediately brainwashing it seemed a bad way to begin.

If the child didn’t take to her, she could always compel the parents into believing it had.

Inside the cradle, wrapped in a yellow blanket, was the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of This World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan, and Lord of Darkness. He was very small, though larger than he had been when Crowley dropped him off two weeks ago, and with darker hair. He was much too small for a tricycle.

“Hullo,” said Crowley. “Remember me?”

The baby stared at her with wide, unrecognizing eyes.

That might have been for the best. Their first meeting had mostly consisted of Warlock being shoved in the backseat of a speeding car while Crowley had reacted as one might to a particularly noisy time bomb. She did feel a bit bad about that. After all, it wasn’t Warlock’s fault.

“I’m your nanny, now,” Crowley said. “My name is Antonia Ashtoreth. I’m going to pick you up so we can say hello properly.”

Crowley had held babies before. One did not live on Earth for six thousand years without holding a baby, and Crowley had spent a bit of time with the world’s _first_ baby, so there. It had been a while, and she was stiff, cautious, but she knew how to support his neck and mind his head and balance his weight comfortably. Warlock did not respond by ending the world.

“Hullo Warlock,” said Crowley.

“Awaa,” said the antichrist.

Crowley smiled.

Warlock wasn’t afraid of her at all.

Crowley was not a satanist, and was not prone to doing things like cooing over toesie-wosies. Neither was Nanny Ashtoreth. So fingers and toes and ears went unremarked upon, even if they were a good deal smaller than Crowley had anticipated.

“Oh yes,” she said, turning towards the door. “We’re going to get along just fine.” She looked away from the baby for just a moment to flash Mrs. Dowling a slightly menacing smile.

“Good,” said Mrs. Dowling. “Your room will be the adjoining one. I’ll leave you to get settled in.” Crowley got a quick flash of _something,_ sharp and desirous and conflicted from her before she disappeared down the hall.

She turned back to Warlock who was beginning to fret in her arms. “Now now,” she murmured. “Nothing to worry about. You’re much too small to be evil. Come on, you can help me set up my room.”

Warlock screamed.

This was what babies did. Crowley knew this and she’d thought she’d been prepared for it. He could be crying for any number of reasons; his mum leaving the room, a change in the sunlight, hunger, fear, exhaustion, the threat of interior decorating. It was the not knowing that really scared her.

“I know, Warlock,” she said, bouncing him gently. “I feel the same way.”

The problem, whatever it was, turned out to be short-lived and Warlock settled down in Crowley’s arms. He seemed to agree that Crowley’s room was not up to her standards, and watched wide-eyed as she thought appropriate furnishings into existence. Surely, she reasoned, he’d be too young to remember any of this really, and a good helping of occult exposure might actually be good for him. Besides, Warlock started crying again when she put him down and that wouldn’t do at all. So she held him until he fell asleep, small and solid and warm against her chest.

Nothing to worry about.


	8. In Which Warlock Moves Away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again this is non-chronological, because the last piece took place at the very beginning and this one takes place at the very end of this timeframe (though it's not the end of this fic). 
> 
> I am nervous and excited to share the first chapter from Warlock's point of view! A few of the concepts in here first came up in conversations with the names for sides discord, so thanks y’all <3
> 
> CHAPTER WARNINGS FOR: mentions of guns and gun irresponsibility (in reference to Warlock’s canon birthday party), and Warlock’s parents being bad at parenting.

Warlock Dowling was eleven years and four days old, and he had just had the worst birthday party in existence, and everything had changed.

His tutors were gone and they hadn't even said good-bye or wished him a happy birthday. His friends had stopped talking to him, and his dad's Secret Service men were all different suddenly, and now Warlock couldn't even live in the same house anymore. Not even in the same  _ country _ . He was on a plane, and he'd been on planes loads of times before, but this one was different because it was going to America.

When Warlock had asked when they'd be going back home, his dad had gotten a vague look and said "I'm not sure we are," and his mum had said "you'll like America, we'll find you a nice school back there." Warlock had pointed out that he couldn't go "back" if he'd never lived there, but nobody listened.

Now he was flying first-class and England was passing by under him. It wasn't great. The last time he'd flown first class the seats had massagers built in and they could recline; these ones just reclined and they were more stubborn about it. The window was cold when looked outside and pressed his forehead to the glass, and there had only been two kinds of ice cream on the menu, neither of which he wanted.

"Why don't we get to go home?" he asked. His mum was trying to sleep in the next seat over, but he asked anyway.

She didn't take off her eye mask. "I don't know," she said.

"Why can't Dad just do his work and then come back and we get to stay at home and-"

"I don't know!" she snapped. She was terrible at answering questions, but there was no one else for Warlock to ask, and Warlock was used to being answered.

He pulled his knees into his chest and put his feet on the seat. His mum didn’t notice.

She did sigh. She did, after a long minute, say, “it was your dad’s idea. We’re just going to have to make the best of it. Read your comics now. I need quiet.”

Warlock didn’t want to read his comics. There were seven of them shoved next to him on the seat, but he’d read them all before and the only good ones were  _ Batman Gothic _ but he was missing the middle issue of the series. And it wasn’t right to reread the rest of the story and skip over the one.

Still, he scowled and picked one at random and spread it over his lap. He was greeted by dark shadows and dozens of corpses hanging upside-down in a cathedral. It was comforting. But not really because he didn’t have the whole story, so he turned back to the window.

Warlock Dowling was eleven years and four days old, and everything had changed, and it was probably his fault.

"Eleven is a big age," his tutor Mr. Cortese had said the week before his birthday, patting him on the shoulder. "One must always remember to do what is Good and Right."

"What's that mean?" Warlock had asked.

"You'll know when the time comes," Mr. Cortese had said, but if the time had come, Warlock had missed it completely, and he didn't think anything about the day had been good or right.

His other tutor, Mr. Harrison, had stared at him for an uncomfortably long moment as though he'd known he'd never see Warlock again. "You're human," he'd said, his voice going odd. "Not all good and not all bad. You can be anything you want to be, and that's a powerful thing so choose carefully."

"How about an astronaut?"

Mr. Harrison pushed his dark glasses further up his nose. "Sure."

"And everybody's human, anyway. You're human."

Mr. Harrison laughed, but he didn't sound happy about it. "Not as human as you are."

But Warlock didn't so much as get to choose when he opened his presents. He didn't even get to  _ open _ them. And there had been no opportunities for him to prove his humanity, or make choices that would change the world.

Except for maybe the part with the gun. Everybody was upset about the part with the gun.

But it seemed to Warlock that it had been _ his  _ birthday, and all his friends were unhappy and some of them were mean, and his magician was terrible, and suddenly the Secret Service agent was throwing his gun around. He'd never seen a Secret Service agent shoot anything in the eleven years they'd been guarding his house and then they were throwing guns around, so what was he supposed to do? He could’ve impressed everybody, even the kids who didn’t like him. He could’ve made the party really exciting. It could’ve been great.

He hadn't meant to shoot anybody for real. The gun was heavier than he’d thought it would be. And then it had just been a water gun anyway. Warlock thought that was pretty clever.

His dad didn't, and that was probably why all the Secret Service men got fired. Except for the one who'd had a real gun who got fired for that instead. It was very confusing.

Maybe that's when Warlock had been supposed to do something important, but he hadn't, and he hadn't done anything when the parents and governesses and legal advisers of his friends had come and fussed over the damage and the risk to their children, and then took them home without anyone saying goodbye. He hadn't done anything when the news started talking about the world ending and fire everywhere, and missing nuclear energy, but he also didn't get to see any of it because his dad had to work in a different country and Warlock's tutors had disappeared so he had to go with. Maybe he'd been supposed to run away and get in the middle of it like they did in books, but he hadn't quite dared, and things had turned out alright anyway, without him.

“Mum?” Warlock said, figuring he’d been quite long enough. “Do my tutors know I’m going away?” There was a loose thread in the armrest of his seat and he started pulling at it.

Somehow his mum had barely moved the whole flight. She had both arms on the armrests and her head against the seat and her legs crossed in the footwell. If Warlock squinted he could almost pretend she was a statue, like one of those old crumbly ones people liked showing him and he didn’t care for. “I’m sure they do, Warlock.”

“Did you tell them?”

“Someone must have. Your dad’s secretary.”

Warlock squirmed. He didn’t trust his dad’s secretary. She always talked about Warlock like he wasn’t there, and watched him like he was going to do something terrible. “Did they say anything about me?”

“I don’t know. Ask your father.”

But he was somewhere else on the plane doing work, and Mr. Harrison (who gave the best answers) was gone, so Warlock asked anyway. “Are they mad at me?”  


“Now how would I know that?”

“You need to know  _ something _ ! You’re just sitting there and sleeping and you don’t tell me anything important! I want to know!”   


“Warlock.”

Now that he’d started he just kept going and going. “I want to  _ know!  _ I hate America, I  _ hate  _ America, I hate this plane.” It was a strong word,  _ hate _ ; it was a bad word. He had a vague memory of the gardener once telling him how strong and bad it was while Warlock tore leaves to shreds out on the lawn. But right now he wanted to be strong and bad, and it came easily. “I hate my birthday. I want to go home. I  _ hate- _ ”

“Warlock!” His mum was looking at him now, green eyes sharp and he almost,  _ almost _ felt glad of it. “We do not shout in the plane.”

“I hate that!”

But it didn’t matter. He kept shouting, and his mum shouted back until she finally sent him out into the aisle to find one of the attendants and see get some food. A treat, she said, to make the time go faster. Warlock stomped between seats still muttering  _ I hate _ under his breath.   


The excursion was short lived. He didn’t want to talk to the flight attendants, and the only food he wanted was ice cream that they didn’t have. So he stalked the aisles of first class until someone escorted him back to his seat. He didn't fight the escort beause Mr. Cortese would have wanted him to be kind, but he did glare because Mr. Cortese wasn't there now. 

Maybe the best thing to do was try and sleep. He probably wouldn’t be able to, but he could pretend. In place of an eye mask he draped his arm over his eyes.

The plane flew over the open sea.

“Hey,” said a voice.

Warlock moved his arm and looked up. There was a boy around his own age leaning over the back of the next seat up. He was blonde and a little dirty with a bright smile. He was hard to look at directly, and Warlock was pretty sure it had been a really old businessman in that seat earlier, but this kid seemed exactly as though he had every right to be there.

“You’re gonna love America,” he said.

“No I won’t,” said Warlock. He expected the boy to leave him alone after that, but he didn’t. Just sat there, dangling his arms and looking around the plane and back at Warlock as though he was waiting. So finally Warlock said, “how’d you know I was moving, anyway?”

“Well,” said the boy. He thought for a moment. “This is the plane to America, right? So you must be goin’ there.”

Warlock shrugged. He couldn't argue with that, and what's more, he didn't want to. "It's for my dad's work," he explained. "I don't care for it."

"Aw," the boy said. “Are you sure? I’d love to go to America.”

Warlock glanced at his mum, who was still unmoving next to him. She didn’t care that he was talking to a stranger, so he answered. “Yes.” 

“Oh.” The boy frowned, just for a moment, before adding, “it could be for you too, y’know.”

“It’s not.” Warlock crossed his arms and glared at the boy’s fingers. There was a perfectly even line of dirt under each nail. He tapped them importantly on the back of the seat.

"Well. I don't reckon it'll be all bad. Most things aren't all bad, really."

“They might be.”

The boy nodded at Warlock's pile of comics. "Batman's from America. right? Maybe you could be Batman."

Warlock uncrossed his arms in favor of worrying the armrest thread.. He thought of Batman in his comic shouting  _ I am the king of hell,  _ not quite sure if that was a good thing or not. It probably  was. He’d probably like being Batman.

"Anyway, it'd be good to get away for a while. Figure things out without worryin' about people expectin' things from you." 

Warlock took a breath. “We’re moving because I did my birthday wrong,” he said. He knew how to say it now. “Nobody will admit it, but I was supposed to do something right and I don’t know what but I  _ didn’t.  _ And I wish I had.” He glared at the armrest, refusing to look at the boy. Except he was quiet for so long that Warlock finally glanced up. 

“The way I figure it,” the boy said slowly, like he was thinking it out, “is that it’s no good thinking the best thing or the worst thing you’ll ever do is at eleven.”

“But-”

“There’s a lot more coming, now, an’ it’s  _ all _ important and it’s all just for fun. You see?” 

Warlock wasn’t sure he did, but he liked the sound of it. Maybe he  _ could  _ be Batman, and maybe that’d make up for it. He wanted to hear more. “Are you moving to America to stay?”

“Nah. I’ve got a lot to take care of back home. You just dreamed me up to keep you company cause I’m your friend.”

“Are we friends?”

“Yeah, of course.” And the boy smiled so easily that Warlock began to wonder if he’d ever really had a friend before this. “I’m Adam, by the way.”

Before that, it had been  _ possible _ that the boy had been one of Warlock’s old friends that he just hadn’t recognized, but he didn’t know anyone named Adam. He didn’t know anyone he could talk to so easily either, though, so he supposed that made sense. A new friend then, for the plane ride only. “I’m Warlock.”

“Hey, you’d better wake up,” Adam said. “You’ll be flying over whales in a minute and you’ll wanna see those.”

And then Warlock’s arm was falling off his face and he was sitting straight up in his seat. He got up to peer around the seat in front of him, but there was no Adam, only an old man snoring quietly whose name Warlock didn’t know.

Still. There was one way to check if it had been more than a dream. He pressed up against the window again, and the ocean was far beneath him, barely even covered by clouds. Nothing happened. Nothing.

And then something rolled out of the water and back in. And then another something. 

_ Whales. _

Warlock knew lots about whales, knew how mean Orcas could be, and how the biggest ones ate the smallest microscopic animals, and how smart they were, and how some could sing. Mr. Harrison had taught him loads about them, but he had never seen whales before. And they were too far away... but the plane dropped suddenly in a way that should have been sickening but wasn’t, and then he could  _ really see. _

(It wasn’t supposed to do that, but Warlock was, after all, at the age when two very powerful beings had expected him to be able to bend all of reality to his will. He couldn’t, of course. He was not the antichrist. But some of that expecting had rubbed off and Warlock had a bit more influence now than he knew.)

“There are whales!” he announced to a plane that was, largely, worrying about its altitude. No one else seemed to care, not even his mum. They were going to miss out then. Except Adam. Even if he was a dream friend, he cared. Warlock pressed his face to the glass until it was warm from his skin.

Eventually the plane moved on, and Warlock settled back in his seat. On a whim- there’d been a lot of weird things happening- he counted his comics again. This time there were eight, with  _ Batman Gothic #3  _ tucked halfway down the seat cushions where he  _ might  _ have missed it before.

So he picked up the first one, opened to skyscrapers and gangsters and a man being tortured, and started at the beginning. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Batman Gothic_ is a real 5 part comic published in 1990, and I read it for research purposes. I don’t recommend it at all, especially not for your eleven-year-olds. But it is _exactly_ the sort of thing Warlock would be allowed to read and would truly enjoy, so, there you have it.


	9. In Which Aziraphale Becomes a Tutor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holoxam requested Aziraphale, Warlock, and the phrase "teach me how to play?" on tumblr.
> 
> The fact that Aziraphale and Crowley do not stay on as Nanny and Gardener is unfortunate. In all honestly, in the book it's even less likely that they would take on the tutor aliases as well, but I'm leaning hard into this parenting concept so in this world, they sure have. Which is a bit unfortunate, because they'd be _terrible_ tutors, but it's also very entertaining to write Aziraphale being Like This TM.

Aziraphale had thought that, perhaps, Warlock would recognize him regardless of what he looked like. He was a bright boy and Aziraphale had helped raise him for the first six years of his life. That had to count for something.

Now, Crowley had cut his hair short and shown up expecting to be seen as a man. He’d preened in the mirror and talked nervously about disguises and gender and the need for a change, and wanting to be that cool sort of tutor who played edgy music and taught Warlock how to play Dungeons and Dragons. Aziraphale wasn’t sure that was really a _type_ of tutor, but there was no dissuading him. And of course Warlock fussed and asked for his nanny back because there was no reason to draw lines between the two personas.

But when Brother Francis had retired, he’d been replaced by Mr. Cortese who perhaps styled his hair more, who kept himself clean and smelled like books, who wore elbow patches and nice slacks, but who didn’t look or act _terribly_ different than the gardener had. And anyway, Aziraphale felt that he traveled through the world with an angelic aura, something that should be recognizable to the right people. And if the boy was indeed the Antichrist… 

He’d even planned, if Warlock had recognized him, to cast it as a great secret, a game, something  _ covert  _ that he’d doubtless find fascinating. But that had never happened.

“So the boy’s not good with faces,” Crowley snapped when Aziraphale fussed about it. “Not his fault. I’m not good with names, and he’s _ six _ . We’ve got bigger fish to worry about.” And Crowley _ was _ worried, anxious and irritable, so Aziraphale let the subject drop.

And now Warlock sat at a table in the study, arms crossed as Aziraphale attempted to get through an introductory lesson on world history. It ought to have been easy. After all, he’d  _ been  _ there. Not that he’d always been paying attention to the big things, but it was the details, the languages, the bits of humanity that would really give Warlock an appreciation for the past. He had  _ anecdotes.  _ He had  _ artifacts  _ he could bring in from his shop (only the sturdy ones, mind, and he would keep a very close eye on them). 

Of course, it was important to get the basics down, the timelines and so forth, and that was what he was  _ attempting  _ to do on this Tuesday, the day after being hired. Warlock did not seem interested in a discussion of the reasons humans found it important to study the past.

“Do I get to learn about the dinosaurs?” Warlock demanded. “They’re history.”

Oh dear. Aziraphale had rather hoped Crowley had cleared up this point, but he supposed the allure of large, toothy lizards was a strong one, even if they were nothing more than a grand misunderstanding. “I don’t think so,” he said. “We’re focusing on  _ human  _ history, you see.”

“What about both? Humans  _ and  _ dinosaurs, riding and fighting and ruling the whole  _ world!” _

Aziraphale took a deep breath and hoped that Warlock wasn’t too committed to the idea when he started coming into his powers. “No,” he said.

“Why not?”

“Well, you see, the study of dinosaurs is an entirely different sort of scholarship, and I hardly think I’m qualified--”

Warlock scowled. “Then I’m not learning.”

“Now Warlock,” Aziraphale said patiently. “I’m here to teach you.”

“I’m  _ not learning. _ And I don’t like you anyway.”

“Don’t _like_ me?” Aziraphale huffed, surprisingly indignant since he mostly preferred people not to like him. “What about--” He very nearly cited some fun activities they’d done together in the previous few years before realizing that no, of course, he still needed to be in disguise. “You barely even know me.”

Warlock stuck out his tongue. Aziraphale didn’t  _ think  _ Crowley had taught him that signature move, but it was unsettling all the same.

“Now see here,” he began.

“No,” said Warlock.

“I’m sure this has been something of a misunderstanding. Perhaps--”

As he spoke, Warlock clambered up onto the chair and placed his hands on the table. Taking a deep breath, he announced with much authority, “go away!”

Aziraphale was not magically sent away. His stomach clenched at the words, spoken with what felt like an infernal sort of authority, but nothing spooky happened. Still. Warlock had never yelled at him like this before, and Aziraphale no longer felt quite safe. He needed a moment to think.

“All right,” he said, raising his hands and emanating  _ calm  _ into the room. “All right, why don’t I go make some tea. Then I’ll come right back and we can try this over again.”

Warlock didn’t seem appeased, but Aziraphale slipped out the door anyway. He paused by the Secret Service agent stationed in the hall and told him he’d be right back and  _ do  _ keep an eye on the boy, would you? there’s a dear.

Crowley was not in the kitchen. It would have been nice to talk to him, see how he was getting on. Still, the quiet did Aziraphale good. He mulled over the unfortunate fact that they’d had to change disguises at all. He’d been against it initially, but Crowley had doubts about the nearby private schools. “If there’s  _ anywhere  _ that would make a young boy want to destroy the world,” he’d said, “that would be it.” And with the Mr. Dowling being an ambassador and the family traveling the world unexpectedly, they’d been only too happy to hire some well-recommended tutors.

Aziraphale returned to the study with two cups of tea and no actual plan for remedying the situation other than hoping that the Antichrist had calmed down somewhat. Warlock had crawled atop the table and was lying on his back, one arm draped over his eyes. Aziraphale took a breath and set one cup down next to him, before taking a seat with his own.

“I don’t want it,” Warlock mumbled. “I only like tea with chocolate milk.”

Aziraphale winced at the travesty, but this was hardly a new phenomenon. “Yes,” he said. “That’s what I’ve given you.”

Warlock took his arm off his face and squinted at the cup. “How’d you know that?”

Aziraphale sipped his own tea. “Your, ah, your gardener told me.”

“You know him?!” Warlock’s voice pitched up in incredulity. “You can’t know him!”

“Ah, but I do,” Aziraphale said. “Old friends, we go way back.”

Warlock gaped.

“He recommended me for the job,” Aziraphale said, beginning to fall into the stride of things. “He had to leave for a, erm, a gardening emergency, but he wanted to make sure you were in  _ good  _ hands.”

Warlock sipped his tea. Aziraphale couldn’t watch, but it seemed to meet Warlock’s specifications. The atmosphere in the room grew friendlier.

“What else did he tell you?” Warlock asked.

“Er. He said you were a kind young boy, and a great help in the gardens. Very fond of, of frogs, and dirt, and that you’re getting to be quite the scholar.”

Warlock nodded, thinking this over. “Did he tell you about the games?”

He could have done. Brother Francis could have told Mr. Cortese everything there was to know about young Warlock, and that would clear everything up. But Warlock was so small, and he had so very few secrets of his own. Surely that wouldn’t be fair.

“I’ll tell you what,” he said. “Why don’t we switch things around. We’ll save history and, and all of that sort of thing for tomorrow, and today, perhaps you could teach me how to play?”

He had, it seemed, said the right thing at last. Warlock’s eyes lit up. “Yeah? Can we play  _ anything? _ ”

“Nearly anything,” Aziraphale promised. “You could even invent something new, if you wanted.”

Warlock leaped off the table and might have twisted his ankle on the way down if not for a quick and instinctual miracle. “Igottagetstuff,” he blurted, and darted out the door. 

Aziraphale waited indulgently and finished his tea.

Warlock came back with an armful of toys including, unfortunately, at least one dinosaur. He plopped down on the floor and began arranging them. Aziraphale eased himself to the ground nearby. “Now,” he began. “What’s all this?" 

Warlock handed him the dinosaur. “The t-rex is gonna walk, and always goes in any direction. It’s gotta knock down all these others, and there are good guys and bad guys. You can be the bad guys.”

Aziraphale looked distrustfully at the plastic figures Warlock had shoved in his direction. The bad guys  _ indeed! _

Though, really, that was a good thing. Warlock gravitating instinctually towards Goodness. 

Aziraphale had never played this game before, likely because the battery-powered t-rex did indeed walk in circles, but would have had a hard time managing outdoors,or on anything more challenging than a polished wood floor. It turned out, however, to be mostly a game of chance. The dinosaur turned haphazardly, knocking over figures at random. Warlock crowed gleefully at every one.

And then, with only a few figures left and the dinosaur having some difficulties maneuvering around the fallen toys, or “corpses,” Warlock turned to Aziraphale with a suddenly serious expression on his face.

“Do you like this game?” he asked.

“It’s not my  _ favorite  _ game,” Aziraphale admitted, “but I’m glad to be playing it with you.”

Warlock nodded. “Is Brother Francis ever coming back?”

Aziraphale wrung his hands in his lap. He and Crowley had discussed this. They would make a clean break. Say goodbye, offer their excuses, turn in their resignations, and never be seen here in those aliases again. A triple life would be more complicated than a double, more risky, and the facade would be harder to keep up as Warlock grew older. But there was such  _ hope  _ in the boy’s eyes.

Aziraphale’s heart twisted as he answered “no. I don’t believe he is.”

“Oh.” Warlock nudged the dinosaur with his foot, breaking his own  _ no touching _ rule to set it on a clearer path.

“He did-- He did say he was sorry,” Aziraphale answered. “And he told me to tell you that, even if he never saw you again, that you are loved.”

Warlock was silent, and Aziraphale almost repeated it. Then the dinosaur toppled over the last of his figures and Warlock let out a whoop of joy. “I WIN!” he cheered. “TAKE THAT, TUTOR!” 

“Well then. Good conquers evil, as it always should.”

“I won!  _ Yes! _ ” Warlock continued cheering and raised the still-writhing t-rex in the air. Looking at him, Aziraphale was struck with a feeling of  _ depth,  _ as though Warlock was filled with more secrets than Aziraphale had given him credit for. Perhaps that was the Adversary in him. Perhaps it wasn’t.

“So you did,” Aziraphale murmured absently. “So you did.”

**Author's Note:**

> I’d love to hear what you thought! 
> 
> You can also find me on tumblr as dwarven-beard-spores, dreamwidth as DwarvenBeardSpores, and twitter as @beardspores.


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